Adventure Log

I feel the stiffness and soreness in my hands, my neck, my back… I feel the bruises on my legs, my hip, my elbow, my ass… I look at a torn apart Georgia, and my torn jacket and pants and broken helmet… I think back on the cold, the wind, the thin air, the shitty road, the fishtail, the 60mph smash against the ground, and staring up at the sky from the ditch… and eventually to my 4 hour ride after the crash.

The Crash – 2

I wasn’t looking for adventure, just the highway. I left Yauri, half way between Cusco and Arequipa, with the idea that I would be in Arequipa in time for lunch. I had gotten off a nice paved road to spend the night in Yauri, and for the life of me could not find it again. Looking at the map I figured I would eventually join with it again, so I picked a road and started off.

I was on the high plains, and I mean HIGH: 4400m (14,500ft). It was an overcast day, with a bitter wind, made all the worse by the fact that I was riding. Even with my warm gloves and heated grips my hands were freezing within minutes. I rode along cursing the fact that I was not on pavement. Usually I seek out the back roads, the interesting twisties, but my legs were still sore from Machu Picchu and I just wanted to get to Arequipa, again, I wasn’t looking for any adventure.

I was freezing and in a crappy mood and the desolate highland landscape was not making it any better. I kept riding and riding, and still no pavement – just dust, gravel, dirt, ruts, and construction. I was in the middle of nowhere and the few and far between towns I passed barely had a dirt street let alone a place to eat. After a couple of hours, I saw a town large enough to maybe have a restaurant, so I pulled over. I found a little place, downed a thermos full of mate de coca, warmed up slightly, and got back on the road. The cold gripped me instantly again, and yet pavement was nowhere in sight. I needed to relax, I needed to accept it, and from time to time I did. But every time I ran into a construction stop the frustration came right back.

And then, on a perfectly flat gravel road, in the middle of nowhere, Georgia started to fishtail. I had no idea why, the gravel did not look deep at all, so I didn’t really even think of trying to move her over. It got bad in an instant and I saw myself flying off of her, so I had to make one of three (or so I thought) decisions: ease off the throttle, gently apply the rear brake, stand up and keep a constant throttle, or speed up a bit to try to stabilize. I chose the last and I chose wrong. The very next second I was whipped to the ground at about 90kph (55mph). I eventually stopped about 30-40ft away and Georgia stopped right next to me (thankfully not on top of me).

I can still see it, just like I can still see the moment Georgia slipped from under me on a mountain curve in Guatemala. I knew it was going to happen, I was almost ready for it, but the fall was so hard there was nothing I could do to control it and for the first time I actually hit my head. I always prided myself on being able to fall well (and considering I have never broken anything (tfu, tfu, tfu) maybe I still I can) and never letting my head hit the ground. But that all changed with my cracked helmet.

As I came to a stop I began to quickly analyze my condition.  My head was throbbing, but the helmet was still on it and I could (barely) move my neck. Good. It took a few seconds but I got my arms and legs to move as well (again, barely). Good. Nothing severed, nothing broken, maybe a concussion, some lacerations, bruising, some inflammation, whiplash… the normal stuff. Good. But I still couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, everything was stiff. I could see Georgia out of the corner of my eye – she was on her side in the small ditch. Maybe she was leaking gas, but I couldn’t move. It was hard to breathe at the high altitude which made everything all the more difficult.

I eventually unsnapped my  helmet, got to my feet and stumbled down the road to get my phone (which flew off), then stumbled back to get one of the bags that flew off, and the GoPro that snapped off my helmet at the point of impact 30ft away. I then stumbled back to Georgia and collapsed by her side.

A few minutes later someone actually drove by and stopped. In the following minutes a few more trucks drove by, no one stopped, and then it was deserted again. I couldn’t talk at first, I just moaned and pointed to my water bottle. One of the guys helped me up, I stumbled back to one of my bags, found a bottle of Aspirin, and swallowed 4. Of all the pain the head was the most debilitating and intense. We then unstrapped the bags and got Georgia on her rubbers.

The key was bent, so I got out a spare, pressed the starter and Georgia came to life! The front fender (or what was left of it) was bent 45 degrees to the right, most everything on the front end was smashed to bits though. But the wheel was in one piece and seemed more or less straight, so I figured I would ride her out. There was nothing else the guys could do so I thanked them and said they could go.

To the shame of all Peruvians, they asked me for a tip. I still can’t get over it. Forget the fact that they were only there for 5 minutes and only helped me lift up the bike (which is very easy for 3 people), that is not important. They stopped to help out a human being who had survived a crash, and they wanted money for it. I don’t care how poor you are, that is disgusting. I always stop to help people, and even if I use up things that I have that cost money I never ever, ever, even think of asking for anything. I’ve also been saved and helped by people just as poor as these guys, and when I offered something (mind you they have never asked), it was adamantly refused – always. I know what it’s like to be poor, but I could never even dream of asking someone for money for giving them a hand – I see it as a privilege to be there for another human being. Shame on them. And sadly this is a relatively accurate reflection on the poorer classes in Peru – but that’s for another time.

I had no choice but to pack Georgia up again and be on my way. It was a painfully slow process as I lifted one bag at a time onto the bike, stumbling back and forth from the little pile I had made. I don’t even know how long it took, I was dizzy and weak and running on auto-pilot. If only I were not sore from Machu Picchu, if only I was at a lower altitude so I could breathe… if only I had made a different decision when hitting that patch, if only I had asked more people about where the paved road was…

Every movement hurt, and my left hand was swollen from the impact which made shifting quite an effort. I managed to get my leg over the seat and set Georgia straight. She started right up again and I began the very long and very cold ride to Arequipa.

At first I kept her in first gear to make sure she could go straight without falling apart, but eventually got her going normally. The funny thing I noticed about the road I was on was the fact that there was no deep gravel anywhere else, just right in the line of my tire. Nice. It took a lot of effort to not pass out and to keep my eyes open and focused. Snowy peaks eventually appeared around me and the desolation became a little lovelier. Of course I could not enjoy it at this point, and could only focus on the road, the pain, and the cold.

I eventually did find the paved road, and cursed it and my maps. I stopped at a truck stop for a giant bowl of mutton soup to warm up. Every movement cost me, every moment of not lying down seemed like torture. But I could not give up, because I knew Georgia was doomed, and if I were to lay down I would not get up for days, so I had to make it to a friendly place.

It took another 4 hours to get to my host in Arequipa – 4 hours that I remember much less clearly than the moment I was slammed against the ground. But I made it. I don’t really know how Georgia or I made it, but we did. As I shut off her engine she dumped her coolant as the oil and gas boiled away – her sign that she got me to safety but that was as far as she was going without some serious TLC. We were both done I suppose, and so I took my turn and collapsed on the bed in a daze of frustration, confusion, and gratitude.

After my adventures in Cocuy I was looking forward to some calm and relaxing days of riding to Venezuela… this of course was not meant to be. I think so far peace has been the hardest thing to find on my journey, as its occurrence is rarer than any other single element.

The day before leaving the town of Cocuy I met a Colombian biker. We chatted for only a few minutes about his time in Europe, the bikes we’ve ridden and parted ways. The following morning, out of nowhere, he asked if he could borrow my bike to go see the glaciers. I am still not sure why I did it, but I said yes. I didn’t even know his last name! But I let him borrow my…. Everything. I wasn’t yet recovered from the mountains and wanted to give myself another day, so leaving was no longer an issue. He’s a biker himself, so I was not concerned for him knowing how to ride, but then again… it was one of the craziest things I have done, but I was thinking of good bike Karma I suppose. To my shock, and dismay, a few minutes after he mounted Georgia, he came back around the block with a backpacker who he picked up to take up to the base camp. I had barely a moment to frown and voice my opposition when he took off. The shocks, the tires, the oil… I was not happy about this turn of events… but all I could do at that point was hope. New Year’s Day is a tough day to get rides as everyone is either still drinking or passed out, so I did not want to leave the backpacker stranded… good karma, that’s all was thinking, good karma.

The next morning I finally left Cocuy for my way last stop in Colombia: Cucuta. I was on the road only a few kilometers when I came to a small village where Georgia suddenly died. She wouldn’t start with the electric starter, nor jump-starting (no easy feat when fully loaded). Eventually she did rumble to life but thereafter threatened to die again if I dropped the throttle. Through at least three villages, down one side of a mountain and up another, I had to keep the engine revved. On slow, tight turns I kept the clutch in and the throttle wide open. I can only imagine how much gas and oil I burned up. I wasn’t sure where I could get this fixed and it was hard to ask for directions with the engine screaming. I got to the last village before the main road north, and managed to find the only mechanic there – who was of course out to lunch. As the day slipped away, so did my hopes of making it to Cucuta that night. As always, however, I spent a wonderful few hours with the mechanic and his family. He cleaned Georgia’s carb and air filter, along with a few other quick fixes and I was ready to go the next morning.

The ride from Soata to Cucuta, along the still in construction highway 55, was one of the worst and best rides so far. For the first 130km and 5 hours the road was nothing but 1^st and 2^nd gear. I could feel the gas, the oil and hydraulic fluid burning away as I slowly traversed, climbed and descended endless mountains and ridges. As annoying as the ride was, the scenery was unparalleled. I am never so happy – smiling like an idiot while I ride along – as when I’m in the mountains. As the sun rose to its zenith and then began its long journey to rest, the mountains revealed themselves and the little secrets they held at a given point in the day.

Long shadows of the cool morning cut deep grooves in the gullies running down both ancient, and still growing, slopes. As I rode, kicking up the dust, so too I passed through the clouds left behind the trucks – their shimmering particles lodging deep in my eyes and nose. Eventually I had to open my jacket as the temperatures climbed along with the morning star. The farms perched at precarious angles along the mountains began to lose their definition, and waves of heat and haze began to obscure the distant ranges. But bucolic farmland slowly gave way to more and more arid land, as the temperature began to drop, as I continued to climb. Until, and it felt like a single moment, the rounding of a single curve, that I beheld a cold and desolate high plain, where only low shrubs and the ubiquitous frailejones grew, close to the ground, tucked away from the chilling wind which drove a dense fog to lap and engulf the buttes and hillocks of the plateau. I trudged along in 1^st or 2^nd gear, mesmerized by the contrast of the lushness I had just left, and the desert like emptiness, and eeriness, of this side of the range. The fog seemed to move slowly, but as my eye wandered elsewhere for a moment, and then returned upon a spot or peak, it was gone. There were no cows anymore, not even sheep, only the hardy goats braved the cold and made the tough shrubbery their meal. A couple of horsemen in the traditional ruana and hat, with the rosy marks of windburn on their cheeks, would stare solemnly as I rode slowly past – on my way to easier climates. Clouds hung low and thick, standing guard and warning of rain, as I entered the plateau, and then again appeared as I dropped down to yet another river, and began my rise up another face, of yet another mountain. Finally the clouds began to disperse as again, I saw taller trees, evergreens, and more farms. The air began to warm, and eventually grew thicker with moisture and the bugs that are indicative of a more tropical climate. I eventually ended my constant drop and climb, and began the slow descent into the foothills of the Andes, leading towards a lush valley which could eventually bring me to the Caribbean. The day that began with a shiver, turned to heat, turned to freezing cold, and again returned to warmth, was now burning hot.

Approaching Cucuta felt like a return to the coast: people walking in shorts and tank tops, the heat of the air, the buzz of the numerous cafes along the road, the more languid movement of the people… it all reminded me of Cartagena. But Cucuta is far from the coast, and is more characterized by the undulating prosperity of Venezuela than anything else. The border town grew in response to the growing wealth and buying power of Venezuela, and continued to have its booms and busts according to the Venezuelan economy ever since. The people are of course Colombian, though different in a slight way, like every other region in the country. The women are as beautiful as ever, the people in general are friendly and open and helpful, but still there is something different – perhaps it’s not for me to tell, perhaps it’s only a difference they truly understand.

So far I have noticed that there is a distinction between people of the Atlantic coast, the Pacific coast, Antioquia (Medellin), Bogota, the northern mountains, and Cali in the south. I have not met too many indigenous peoples from the jungled regions of Colombia, like Putumayo, but I can only assume they are different as well. What’s interesting is the continued parallel of people from a given type of landscape across countries/cultures. Farmers in Guatemala and Colombia and Virginia will have more in common with each other, than people from the city in their own country. Mountain folk here are very reminiscent of those in other countries; and of course those from metropolitan centers carry similar common threads, particularly the haughtiness, obsession with fashion, and a certain worldliness, similar to big city residents around the world.

I got an unexpected, helpful and pleasant surprise when Omar invited me to stay with him in Cucuta. It made my ride shorter and meant I would not have to cross the border at night. What was to be a day turned into 4, as usual, with day trips, friends, family and food. It also gave me the opportunity to prepare myself for Venezuela.

Not only did I have to bring my own toilet paper and a stock of basic hygiene products, I wanted to bring some extra tooth paste and flour to give to my hosts along the way. This is my first time, since leaving my native Russia, entering a country where there are lines for food, for the bank, for basic services. A place where running water and electricity are not guaranteed, not because there is no infra-structure but because communist mismanagement of it means constant cuts. Never-the-less I tried not to think too much of what was to come so that I would not contaminate my experience with prejudice and false expectation. And I’m glad I didn’t as the 3 months I would spend in Venezuela would be some of the most breathtaking of my journey, and the people I would meet would become some of my closest friends.

After Villa de Leyva and the wonderful pre-Christmas volunteering, I was overwhelmed by the constant presence of people. I could not remember the last time I had actually been by myself, and so I decided a few days alone in the mountains was just what I needed. And though I was surrounded by wilderness on all sides, this would not be such an easy task to accomplish.

I left Villa de Leyva on small 1^st and 2^nd gear roads going north. The gnarly dirt road was a rainbow of colors – the mud changed according to the mineral deposits from which the road was carved: gold to grey to red to tan… always shifting, always mixing to form a dynamic guide along the fertile valleys. Giant waterfalls lined the mountain faces and quenched the thirst of endless gullies – thick with bush and tree, capped by a tireless fog.

After 6 hours of riding (which only brought me 60km) and a fall in the mud, I decided to spend the night in the tiny village of Gambita, which sits in the middle of Igague National Park – there I passed Christmas, mostly alone.

From Gambita I made it as far as Mogetes (only 140km away) 6 hours later, where I got Georgia thoroughly cleaned (from the dump in the pretty, yet very slippery mud) and got the fuse replaced for the headlight. With rain clouds gathering again, I was only too happy to get off the road then and there, knowing I would not make it to Cocuy that night.

The ride to Mogotes was excellent! I had the pleasure of hitting 3^rd, and even 4^th,  gear! Beautiful mountain-scapes, more bucolic valleys (though every once in a while wild and uninhabited ones too), and an excellent twisty road – almost completely devoid of cars. Shifting colors in the mud were replaced by undulating smells – sugarcane, both fermenting on the road and being cooked; pine and the sharp smell of a northern forest; and that glorious smell of nothing at all – just clean air.

I found a route on the map which cut diagonally to Cocuy, but everyone who I asked (who knew what Cocuy even was) said that the road doesn’t go there. But I decided to take a leap of faith and trust google maps on this, even though it has put me in the soup more than once before, and rode on.

The next day I broke my rule of not driving at night yet again, to make it to Cocuy. It was worth riding 30 minutes in the dark to not pay another 15,000 pesos for a hotel. Most of the 4 days it took me to get there were spent off-road, only briefly, and very rarely, ever hitting 3^rd gear.

When I finally got to El Cocuy I was informed of a fact which I had conveniently ignored before: that they are at the height of tourist season. My dream of being alone shattered within 5 minutes of arriving at what should have been the jumping off point to peace and quiet. I wanted the absence of colorless fireworks, blaring music, ceaseless barking of dogs, the screaming of children, and the constant drone and roar and choking exhaust of motor vehicles.

On my way there I had encountered a dozen places I wanted to make my home, if only to camp and be alone for a little while. It is some form of great stupidity that I never did – that I chose to neglect the perfection of those spots – just off the side of almost deserted roads – and continue to the touristy mess which is El Cocuy.

Though I had found a place to stay for less than anywhere is town, I still went to the hostel to see about their prices and possibly meet other hikers. There was no one there really (groups just having left for the lakes and glaciers), but I thought I would try my luck and see if the owners knew of a place I could be alone. At first they repeated what everyone else had said, but then they pointed to a lake far off to the east, which looked to be almost outside the park. They said the views were great and that I could possibly leave my bike with one of the last farmers on the road before hiking. I didn’t have too much time to think as the next day the town’s fiesta was starting, and the last thing I wanted was more people and more noise.

By the time I had packed the following day it was past noon. There was a horse parade to start off the fiesta, and more than a hundred riders from the surrounding villages came to participate. Of course they were on the road I needed to get out, so my late start was delayed even more. As I was leaving I saw a group of pretty girls and for a moment my heart seized, as it usually does, in doubt and regret for leaving. Trying to get to the end of the road before the hike meant dropping Georgia 3 more times. I dropped her as much for her being underpowered and heavy, as for my own lack of off-road riding skills. I truly am a road biker playing at the adventure rider.  Thankfully there was a farmer, Jose, the last farmer on the road before the wilderness, who saw me and helped me to right Georgia. All of that, just to be alone for a few days. By the time I got to the end of the road, repacked my backpack, tucked away and covered Georgia, it was already 3pm. Jose walked with me as far as the river, which is the boundary between his land and the park which stretches all the way to the border with Venezuela – encompassing both glacial peaks and jungle.

I continued across the river and began the slow climb to the lake. My bag was heavy and poorly packed (the sleeping bag hanging off the back) because it’s too small to fit everything for a solo trek. It made breathing even harder, and brought a mind-numbing pain to my neck and shoulders. In a dozen years of hiking I cannot recall ever having the right backpack and having it properly packed. As much as I love the mountains every trip has been more trouble, almost, than it was worth – particularly at elevation.

What is said to be an hour’s walk took me about two. When I finally huffed and puffed my way to the last peak, I discovered there was no lake – at best it was a bog with patches of water – tiny ponds perhaps. What was told to be a lake by 3 people, and what looked like a lake on the map, was nothing to look at, no view of anything else, and no place to camp. But because of my late start it was already growing dark and I had little choice but to look nearby for a place to break camp and abandon the idea of finding the lake. Between two years of smoking, lack of cardio, and the altitude, every step cost me what seemed to be an ounce of life. But I managed to set up camp and boil a cup of tea before dark. I then settled in to read, but was asleep by seven – only to wake up two hours later and spend the rest of the night in the contemplation of my own death.

Riding ever further from civilization never ceases to bring forth awe inspiring beauty. At night there is no light pollution and the sky is littered with millions of stars. The sun setting over mountain peaks sets them, and the truant fogs, ablaze, while casting the valleys in rich purple hues. The days bring vistas of mountains stretching for what seems to be a hundred kilometers to the horizon; of bucolic valleys with cows and sheep lazily grazing their days away; and rivers meandering noisily through fields and glades, snaking their way into distant dreams of the simple life.

As I sat there, alone, in a place which only in part met my hopes, I was keenly aware that I was in fact running away. This whole trip, regardless of every good reason, purpose or possible outcome, was, at its heart, a fleeing. It may sound silly, and I thought I was intelligent enough to know better, but in the end it’s not about intelligence, and the truth is that I was running away from myself.

How can one run from themselves? The very you you wanted to leave behind? I realized this when I spent yet another sleepless night, though alone in the wilderness like I wanted – the place I was supposed to be most at peace – thinking of my own death.  Though I am “living the dream”, as everyone likes to tell me, easily a third of my thoughts are spent in the contemplation, and desperate attempt at prevention, of killing myself. What is ever more troublesome is how much closer I’m getting again to that moment. When I was 16 I didn’t think, I just went for it (in a stupid way I’ll grant you). My biggest regret to this day is that I did not research it and do it properly. Since then the thought of my actions destroying my mother’s sanity and life has brought me back time and time again, but that torture is never-ending and it makes a big part of my life a living hell.

There is some irony in the fact that Love seems to be the cure for this. Of the last 24 years of the hell, about 5-6 were spent relatively free of these thoughts – the years I was in love. For one reason or another, real or invented, I parted ways with the three loves I had known. And now though I know the medicine I need, I fear of committing myself to someone. I didn’t want to be wrong: get married, have some kids, and discover that love was not the answer after all and that I am doomed to this torture forever out of the responsibility I would have for my wife and kids (to say nothing of my mother). And so I ran, and I ran, and I ran… until I found myself in the middle of Colombian wilderness no better for it, with no new hope to light my way forward.

On the second day the fog came rolling in again – the sun, no matter how intense, seems to be no match for it. But I could not lay and wallow any longer so I decided to explore my little isolated haven. I found the elusive lake, further away, and higher, than what my phone map showed. It was good that I did not seek it the other day as I would have lost a lot of day light in my search and dry, flat places were scarce.

 

Colombia’s version of an alpine plain is a lovely landscape of mosses, bushes, and a particularly pretty plant which, from a distance, looks like a mix between a cactus and an agave. Up close it looks like tiny sunflowers rising up from a vase of furry leaves growing up, and dryer, pineapple like, ones growing down. The colors of the flora are intense and bright when they are concentrated on furry little leaves that cling to crevices and cracks in mountain walls. But some patches of plants are eerie and wispy, they stand almost like ghosts in the distance, their silvery leaves and sunny heads taunting the senses from their foggy shrouds. There were bare rock strata of many colors running at various angles along the mountains. They threaten of a rougher, more desolate place than what this part of the valley actually is.

Darkness came quickly, as it tends to do in such places, leaving me under a giant bowl of stars, and every so often a distant meteor would streak the sky for a brief second, and I would unwittingly smile.

The next day, rather than burning up the fog, again, the sun boiled the steamy basin of Colombia’s northern rainforest and sent clouds to cover the valleys and peaks of Cocuy for the majority of the day.

I began my hike though part Alps, part Middle Earth, at 6am. By 10:30 I found myself on a ridge that snakes from the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada down to my humble and foggy little valley. To the north-west nothing but endless, and unexpectedly snowy, mountain peaks dissolving into the familiar distant hues of deep purples and blues. To the east the gradually descending mountains, with unmeasurably high cliffs that form tears in the earth, that lead to the rainforest.

After such a difficult start with my fear of crowding, not finding a place to camp, my physical and mental weakness, the view destroying fog, the elusive lake, the crashes with Georgia, and overweight pack, I was sure this would be a wasted trip. But as I sat alone on the soft, mossy ridge, with a commanding view of all cardinal directions, the sun and wind taking their turns burning and freezing me, I was finally content and happy.

But as always in the mountains the hard-won view was short lived. The fog began engulfing my return route and slowly obscuring the snow and dream filled horizon. I had no real map or GPS and could not see any of the landmarks I had remembered on my way up. I had my phone and was able to see my location relative to the lake – but in the high wilderness “relative” can mean the difference between life and death.

Descending blind in the thick fog I misjudged how far I had to go down and ended up descending more than I remembered climbing. I found myself on a ledge overlooking a cliff with nothing but white in front of me. Eventually I realized that I had traversed to far as well and was on the wrong side of at least one ridge.

In moments of clarity I could see the vertical wall behind me and the 90 degree drop in front of me. I knew I had to traverse back from where I came but I knew not to what end as I would be as blind there as I was on the edge of the precipice where I realized the gravity of my error. The thoughts of slipping and falling hundreds of meters, or being stuck in the open, exposed to wind and below zero temperatures were my constant mental companions. However, I stayed calm. It’s probably the most important things one can do. The second, is to go back up, gain elevation and to re-orient yourself. This however would be fruitless in this case as the peaks would be just as engulfed in fog as the rest of the range. I knew, or rather hoped, that it would clear up as the sun would set, and if I just followed my instincts, the brief, short range, clearings in the fog and the compass on my phone, by the time it would begin to clear I would be within close range of my tent. Walking at night was not an option as I did not have my light, nor would it be very useful as there are no trails and many rises and falls which could obscure my tent even from a few dozen meters distance.

I began my scramble up the mountain in the direction which seemed the least steep and where a brief lull in the fog revealed what looked like a pass over the ridge which would not require professional rock climbing gear. As I made my way in that direction the fog closed in again. For the next three hours it would be the same over and over again.

I stopped often and sat in doubt – was I actually going the right way? At what point should I start to climb down again? There was only so much strength I had for going up and down at that altitude, would I have enough to keep going?

Brief “clearings”, instinct, and a lot of luck finally revealed the side of a ridge on the other side of a narrow valley, and I knew it to be mine. For brief seconds the sun would appear as a perfect, hazy circle in the fog, which confirmed my direction, and in one of those moments it cast enough light on a familiar slope to let me know I would make it before dark.

But all was not yet won as the fog kept coming and limiting my ability to move on immediately and to plan the overall path. I eventually did make it down to the valley and began recognizing landmarks. I couldn’t see my tent and the thought that it had been stolen gripped me as much as doubt over my orientation. Then there was more climbing ahead as I had ventured too far downhill and too far west. As the sun’s rays grew weaker behind the western range, further dimmed by truant clouds, I finally saw the peak of my little gecko colored shelter. I was saved! And that is not an exaggeration as the likelihood of my surviving with no warm clothes or shelter at night, at over 4000 meters, would be quite slim.

The following morning my head continued to throb, as much from the altitude as from the lack of water and sleep during my 3 day solo excursion into the wilderness of Cocuy. The walk back to Georgia was mostly downhill, but it was still exhausting, and the farmer’s dogs, without their master to keep them at bay, barked and bellowed and gnashed their teeth at me for a good half hour.

It was New Years Eve and I wasn’t sure I would have a place to stay when I returned to the town. I rode to my last little unheated hovel and was warmly welcomed again. I almost decided to not leave the room, but could not bear to be alone on New Year’s for the first time in my life, and so I got dressed again in my dirty clothes and went to the town’s square. I met some people from before my trek and we spent the night dancing in the cold mountain air and making fun of the mediocre band. I was in bed by 4am, with no headache, and ready to continue to the first country which actually gave me cause to fear and doubt: Venezuela.

After giving up the job search in Medellin I made my way to Bogota to search in the bigger market. There I met Catalina and her family and was thrown head first into the novena period before Christmas. For 9 days before, and including, Christmas Eve, people go from house to house of their friends and relatives to hear a novena – the Christmas story. The prayers and songs are festive and mostly the same in every house and every night; but one night is not enough for Colombians because families here are huge and circles of friends are even bigger, and so to ensure that everyone spends some time with all of the hundreds of people they are closest to, we get 9 days of Novenas. And of course 9 days of gorging oneself upon tasty seasonal treats.

Some novenas get wilder than others. It all starts with the prayers and the stories and the songs and psalms from the bible, but then transforms into general Christmas medleys and dancing and drinking and all of a sudden it’s just another party. Latinos have a religious festival for everything, and I mean everything: every saint, every miracle, the beginning of lent, the end of lent, the middle of lent, this virgin, another virgin, the original virgin… and every one is an excuse to get pissed. Tequila, beer, mescal, fernet, aguardiente, rum, whiskey, chicha… it all flows freely and to the point that most don’t remember which saints day of circumcision they are supposed to be celebrating. And the more indigenous the people, the drunker they get – not only because they generally consume more, which is true, but from what I have gathered, having spent time with dozens of indigenous groups, they may be devout Catholics, but they aren’t happy about it. The songs of their fathers still reverberate in their veins. You can see it in the architecture, nothing is purely “colonial” or gothic or anything else European – every church has secrets of masks and figures of the old gods hidden in the pillars, in the painted ceilings, in the golden altars. You can see angels and cherubs with high cheek bones, darker skin, longer hair. You see Jesus eating what looks more like rice and beans than bread and fish. The celebrations and processions are also a mix of the indigenous, be it Mayan, Zapotec, Inca or Mexica, and the Christian – from the costumes to the dances to the figures and icons themselves. In every holiday there is a little rebellion, a little hate, a little reminder of what was and what was taken from them by cruel force and disease. But looking at it all from a distance they are extremely devout and religious, as most poor people are. The indoctrination was not a failure, only that it left a residual hatred which now manifests itself in mostly subtle ways.

 Colombia is a country which stands less indigenous than others. Other than the remnants of African slaves who mostly occupy the coastal areas, and a few indigenous groups in the mountains and jungle, the majority of the country is very white. Like El Salvador and Costa Rica before, Colombian conquistadors did a thorough job eradicating the native populations. Who did not die by the sword, in the mines, or from disease, were properly raped until only a faint caramel in their skin bespoke of ancestry that was not Spanish. And it all continues to this day as FARC takes more and more land to grow coca, and kills anyone who stands in the way. The government is also pretty good about making sure that deforestation keeps the remaining natives on the move and with fewer and fewer options but to convert to the church of jeans, TV and McDonalds.

However I felt none of this animosity, contrarily, I encountered many selfless people who used the holiday not as an excuse to drink, but as an excuse to do more, to give more, to love more.

A few days before Christmas I was walking around Bogota with my camera, looking for I did not know what, until I spotted a large group of people waiting outside a building. Bogota is not a warm place in the winter, and it had been raining for as long as I could remember, but there they were, in various degrees of dress, just waiting. Lines are not uncommon in Latin America, but there was something about this group which drew me in. I approached a few people, said my hello, and began asking for what they were waiting. Because all of these people were from the poorest classes I had a hard time understanding their Spanish, but I did manage to get something about presents, a novena and some food. I knocked at the door where most were gathered and was squeezed inside and the door quickly shut behind. I began asking the young man who let me in what it was all about, and he was good enough to offer to take me on a tour. I had stumbled upon a man, really, who used his old familial house as a refuge of learning for the children of drug addicts.  He, and a few private donors, fund this entire endeavor with no help from the government. Hundreds of children make it through those doors at some point during each year, and all are welcomed, all have a safe space, classes, snacks, and love. During the Christmas season the foundation puts on a Novena play for all to see, and provides food and drink and free presents to all those who come. Some are infants, others late into their teens. Those who have been there the longest now help out, like the young man who ushered me in and showed me around. I met the man himself – a quiet gentleman in his late 70’s. We spoke of Russia and communism, of his efforts to improve the lives of children and give them a fighting chance in spite of their parent’s best efforts to consume all hope through needles and pipes. We spoke of the independence of his work and lack of government support, but most of all of the children and the hope he still has. I spent a beautiful hour with this giant mass of people, those who have entered and those still waiting outside, and captured some of the most moving photos from my journey.

My ever present wish to somehow do more was granted to me by Catalina who invited me to go with her to Villa de Leyva to hand out gifts to the poor children from the country side.

5a.m: The cobble stone streets are empty and peaceful, save for the Christmas carols bouncing off the whitewashed walls of perfectly preserved colonial houses. There is no other sound; the birds have not yet started their call of morning glory, people are still warm and tucked in their beds. I approach the main square – a giant space with a fountain in the middle, surrounded on all sides by the same buildings as the rest of the town, with a simple, but large, church dominating one side. The sound of the carols is coming from speakers placed high in the belfry, and it spreads throughout Villa De Leyva, one reverberation, one wall, one stone at a time. What was at first a hint of children’s voices is now a veritable din, punctuated with the occasional bell and firework.

The town lies in the middle of Colombia, in the countryside through which Bolivar passed during his campaign to Liberate Colombia and Venezuela. It looks so idyllic, so peaceful, so stable, and yet beyond the vacation homes and artist retreats lie thousands of acres farmed by people who cannot buy their children Christmas presents. So Catalina, three of her friends, a nun and a monk, and myself, set out to remedy the situation. The first night we went to St. Martin, a community about an hour from Villa de Leyva. We brought the snacks and gifts into the towns meeting hall, which was little more than a barn with some benches around the perimeter. The monk told the story of Christmas, candles were lit, prayers were murmured, the nun ensured the more restless kids kept their seats. Mostly mothers, and a few fathers, sat around with the infants, quietly listening and quietly singing along. There was a moment of silence, when the adobe walls and faces were only lit by the candles flickering in the interminable draft, in which the world shrunk to just that little room, and in the stillness the kid’s faces reflected the entire story of their plight, their hopes, and resignations. It was peaceful and sad and beautiful all at once.

The following day almost 300 children and parents came for the novena at the foundation Ciudad de Dios – a convent, orphanage and home for the elderly. Kids from Villa de Leyva put on a short but lovely nativity play, the traditional songs were sung, prayers chanted… then everyone received gifts and snacks. Not all the kids said thank you (or so it seemed), few were very glad to receive the gifts. Granted they were not stupendous, but most were nice and age appropriate. Still, not as many smiles as one would hope to see. Generally I have found that regardless of how poor the kids are, if they are Latino, they are pretty happy. Guatemala was an exception, and now it seems this too was an exception to the rule. It makes me think of what is really important during this holiday. Is it the gifts? Doesn’t seem like it. Is it the singing and praying? For some yes, but for just as many, no. Are they missing a parent? Are they missing friends from school? Do they feel so acutely their poverty? Why the sadness? On some faces it was so profound that I was taken aback – expressions of calm despair on young children, none of whom should have lost anyone to the war or displacement (the area is very safe)… why did I not talk to the girl who looked so sad waiting for a sibling to receive a gift? It would not have cost me anything, only that I don’t like to intrude on people’s lives, especially when they seem so profoundly sad.

But I still can’t get her face out of my mind – just like the girl in Orizaba making animal figures out of palm leaves on the street. I fall in love with them instantly: the one from Orizaba, Betzaida at the orphanage in Guatemala, this girl… I don’t know what it is, but the love boils up into my throat until I have to choke down the tears. I want to adopt them, I want to take them out of their hell so that their faces never again have to wear those expressions. I want them to dress comfortably, eat good food, study, read books, to know their worth and capacity, to go out with men (eventually) who know how to treat a lady. As much as I doubt having children of my own, there is not a moments doubt about wanting them to be my daughters. Years have passed since these moments and I can still see their faces, my heart still burns from my ineptitude and gypsy life which makes adoption impossible, and a sick misery creeps over me as I think of what their lives must have been like to have brought such expressions to their angelic faces and whether anything at all has changed hence.

 

 

Regardless of the pain, volunteering has always been the best part of my journey, and this was no exception. The incredible kindness that I saw in people, the difficulties that children did not give up on, the gratitude and happiness that were still prevalent… those days will remain in my fondest memories from the entire journey.

Medellin is an entire world contained, like so many South American cities, in lovely valley. It has some of the poorest and most dangerous barrios in the world, as well as fantastically wealthy people (on the scale of Pablo Escobar). There is plenty to draw in the tourists – the incredible women, the music and dancing, the museums… but even in La Zona Rosa I never felt inundated by tourists. It’s big enough to draw people from around the world, and has all the comforts of a big city, yet it’s small enough to learn, and start recognizing people on the street, within a few weeks.  It is a city of balance, so to speak, and one that is very easy to call home.

Unfortunately Medellin is where my savings, and the money I made from selling everything I owned, came down to fumes. A teacher’s salary and a few bottles of scotch don’t get you too far I suppose, though I did make it through all of North America on it.

My only option, I thought, was to look for a job. Thankfully I am extremely qualified to do what is in the greatest demand around the world: teaching English.  This is a very useful skill to have and if you are fortunate enough to do it in Korea or Japan you will make a good amount of money; everywhere else in the world it will be enough to survive, or even live well where you are, but almost never enough to save (so that you can continue to travel – especially on a motorcycle). So I began going to the language schools, universities, international schools and regular schools. I printed resumes (which I had to adjust to fit the Colombian model, which included a full page photo!), and spent my days riding around to all corners of Medellin in search for a job. Of course, given my extraordinary luck with life, this was a few weeks before the holidays, so no one, and I mean no one, was hiring. Ironically, after the holidays were over and I was long gone from Medellin, the offers came pouring in from every place I submitted my resume. I also had plenty of people offering to help, saying they knew people in the field, however, Latinos are often greater in word than in deed. They love to be helpful (whether real or imagined), and never say no, or that they can’t do something. The result, more often than not, is a huge waste of time as you expect people to come through on their word. It’s not done out of maliciousness, rather from a strong desire to be kind and friendly. Still, it is one of the more annoying elements of Latino society.

One of the best job offers I got was from EAFIT, the best private university in Medellin, to teach International Business and Marketing. But, I had another problem – the lack of a work visa. This manifested itself in a few other locations as well. I eventually met a guy at a local pastry I used to go to who had his own company and would be willing to offer me a work visa just because we became friends (a very Colombian thing to do). I got all of his papers and corp. docs and began the long and insane process of going through the Colombian bureaucracy. But as it was getting closer and closer to Christmas, I decided to move onto Bogota because the market was bigger and I would have a greater chance at finding work and a visa. And just as I was beginning to sink into despair, job offers notwithstanding, an angel appeared in my life and changed the course of my journey.

I had met Ralph only a few times when I was living in New York. He owns the Red Hook Lobster Pound, as well as a shop where he makes custom bikes and kitchen tables from entire tree trunks. Before I left on my journey Ralph told me that if I ever needed anything to let him know. I hate asking for money, I’m not even good at receiving gifts, but in Colombia I saw the end (if temporary) of my journey and that prompted a letter to Ralph. To my surprise (and everlasting gratitude) he did not ask anything other than how much I needed. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, and I could even less believe that it was happening. I calculated the absolute bare minimum (which actually was not enough) to finish South America and sent Ralph the amount. A check was ready for me the very next day. If it were not for Ralph I would have had to store Georgia somewhere and go work in an oil field to make enough money to continue this crazy journey. If I were only riding I would have been done long ago, but since the purpose is a book I end up staying places for very, very, long periods of time – which, no matter how little I spend per week, ends up costing more. That and the sicknesses (including dengue), and all the issues with Georgia… it was all a drain on the little I had. But my angel appeared and so this journey, and the book continue.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I am where I am. Not so many years ago the world was a dream – the world beyond the U.S and Europe and Israel. But now it is revealing itself, one country at a time.  I remember dreaming of Colombia without actually considering how or when I would ever come here. But I found myself there, and as the money I had saved up and earned from selling most of what I owned was quickly coming to end, I would get to enjoy the country for more than its beauty and cordiality.

Uncharacteristically we got off on the wrong foot, as, a couple of days after landing in Cartagena I was robbed.

I wanted a better exchange rate than the bank would give and ended up losing $250 to a sleight of hand. The money changer kept taking the wad back after I counted and recounted it himself. I knew not to let him touch it, but he just kept doing it, so I gave it to Eran, the Israeli biker I met while unloading Georgia off the boat, to count it again. Eran counted it, but the guy took the money in hand again, for the 4^th time! Like a fool, I let it happen, gave him my $300 and walked away. 10 paces later I stopped, counted the money again, realized that I was missing 500,000 pesos, turned around, but he was gone. He and they guy I met who called him, and his “girlfriend” and “niece” were gone. We ran around in every direction, but they had disappeared.

$250 is generally a huge amount for me, but as I was running on the fumes in my bank account it hurt more than just my ego.

But that was the beginning and end of any unpleasantness. The rest of my time in Colombia was replete with the most friendly and helpful and considerate people outside of Mexico.

After only a few days in Cartagena I had to get on the way as I could not function in the infernal heat. It is hard to describe the heat that permeates the Caribbean coast. Because it is thick from humidity, when the sun is shining directly on you, it feels like the inside of a giant oven. This is not an exaggeration, I literally felt like I was being cooked. Just the act of putting on my pants and jacket drenched me, and the wind did little to alleviate that during the ride. The constant traffic lights and construction stops did not help – I would instantly be covered in sweat the second I stopped riding.

I was fortunate to have a place to stay in Lorica, about 200km outside of Cartagena. It was nice to break up the 700km ride to Medellin. How I came to Alexis’ house is one of those beautiful stories which make me hunger to forever be on the road:

It was around 3am and I was walking back to my hostel after a nice stroll with two pretty Colombian girls. All of a sudden out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy turn around. He looked at me for just a moment before throwing open his arms, and with a huge smile calling my name. I could not believe it, I had to shake my head and rub my eyes to make sure it was all real. I met Lambert about 4 months earlier on the early morning ferry to Utila, Honduras. We talked and drank, and hung out on the island – just a great time with a great guy. A week later I had to get back on the road and he stayed back for a month doing various diving certifications. And then, in the middle of the street in Cartagena, Colombia we met again. But this was just a beginning. Lambert and some friends were with Alexis, whom they met at a small square in the Getsemani neighborhood where I was staying. This happened just an hour before we ran into each other. Alexis proceeded to offer to help me with my job search in Medellin as he has family there, and invited me to stay at his house on my way there.

The ride to Medellin was at first extremely hot, then turned cold and wet as I began to climb into the mountains. But I welcomed the cold as I had not felt it in almost a year. I stopped at a random little station somewhere in the mountains to put on my rain gear, and noticed a man preparing to milk his cows in the field to the side of the gas station. I walked over to him and asked if I could buy some fresh milk and take some pictures. I spent the next hour and a half talking to Livardo, who at the end would not take a penny from me. It was a beautiful moment of cultural exchange between two very, very different people. But we both were open minded and eager to learn, so the time passed quickly and pleasantly as we shared stories from our countries.

By the time I got back on my steed the sun was setting. I hate so much riding at night, but in Colombia where the FARC like to shut down a road every once in a while, it was particularly an unwelcomed necessity. However, experience would show that the FARC rarely do this outside of their zone of drug operation, and for the most part do not bother tourists.

In Medellin I found my host’s apartment packed with guests; one of whom was a girl named Ashley who I had met in Nicaragua some months ago. But the more we talked the more it seemed as though we had known each other before. It turned out we have been on a similar path ever since Belize, so it’s very possible we had crossed paths many times without ever realizing it. There were people from many countries in the apartment and we shared a lovely and lively meal. It was the perfect start, and really set the tone, for my time in Colombia.

Panama City

A month in the states went a long way to my ultimate recovery from dengue. I was a few pounds heavier from my mom’s cooking, and my soul was satisfied with nights of jazz bars and the New York Philharmonic. I flew back to my Costa Rican family, fixed the clutch cable and hit the road to Panama.

Costa Rica would save some of the most beautiful riding for my last days just to make sure I knew well what I was leaving. Giant, almost unbelievably colorful, parrots flew over me whenever I would pull over along the coastal road. Rolling hills, interspersed with mountains to the east, and gorgeous bays of the pacific coast to the west. I never knew there were so many shades of green!  Tiny strips of beach, not yet victim to development, lined the coast, with palms throwing a cooling shade over ceviche vendors, inviting me to stop and pitch my tent at every turn. The peace and simplicity were so inviting, the hope of a reprieve from the scorching heat kept loosening the throttle, but I had a boat to catch to Colombia, and missing it would mean having to pay $500 more for another one.

Norm welcomed me to Panama and his home – my first time staying with someone I met through motorcycle clubs (I met a MCY gang on a ferry in Nicaragua, and they put us in touch). His home was a tiny paradise of fruit trees and flowers and monkeys and tropical birds – all there by choice, but who knew as well as I the rarity of such a place. It was a short stay, but filled with proper cups of tea and stories from the road. The following morning I was on my way to the disappointment of Panama City.

I ‘ve always had an image in my head of what Panama City would be – linen suits, panama hats, cigars, business done in cafés with handshakes. What I found was a mostly abandoned old city, filled with tourists and surrounded by dangerous slums. There were still some intact remnants of the French and Spanish colonial buildings, and some lovely Art Deco ones as well, but they quickly receded into hurricane and time damaged ruins, and eventually slums. I decided to at least see that part of Panama City, but was accosted on every corner by police and soldiers who would tell me to turn around and not enter the slum. My friend and I persevered and entered the periphery, but were eventually forced to leave by the soldiers armed with dual pistols and machine guns.

 

The Panama Canal was of course the highlight. Watching a ship the size of a large village rising and falling right before my eyes left quite an impression. The locks at Miraflores are not to be missed! As impressive and formidable as nature is, every once in a while man manages to control it – and that is always a sight to see.

 

After a couple of days in the city I rode to my last point in Central America, Porto Bello, to catch my boat to Colombia.

Portobello

 

In Portobello I met the 5 other riders who would share in my illegal crossing into South America – my second continent.

500 year old canons point out to the bay at sailboats floating on the crystal clear and lake calm water of the Caribbean. 300 years ago they were pointing at hundreds of Spanish galleons waiting to be filled with silver and gold which had to be stored outside in giant heaps for it could not all fit inside the customs house. And as many years ago they were firing on countless pirate and buccaneer ships sacking the city.

The night before sailing we loaded 6 motorcycles onto the Canadian ship, flying a U.S flag, commanded by a Dutch sailor (of sorts). 3 KLR’s, 2 DR’s and an F800GS. Loading the bikes was easy but nerve-wrecking. Loading them first into little dingys was scary as the little boats moved and swayed from even a wink, then came the ride to the Mother Ship, and finally hand pulling the boom to get them onto the boat. We worked with bated breath knowing that a mistake would mean an inglorious end to a journey. But all 6 steeds made it on board, were sprayed with oil to keep off the rust, covered in tarps to keep off the spray, and winched down to keep them from diving overboard. All was left was to load the food and ourselves, find a flat surface on which to sleep  (as there were enough bunks for only 2), and wait for the sunrise.

 

3 Australians, a Canadian, an American and myself, along with the Dutch captain and his Slovak lesbian ex-girlfriend – quite a crew! We were an interesting collection of characters, with wildly diverse, and often illicit, histories. Our reasons for being on the road also varied greatly. One other was a veritable gypsy like myself, others just seeking the thrill of the road and the embraces of Latina beauties. However we all shared the joy of the ride, the wind, and the inevitable lessons we learn about ourselves.  We all got along instantly and the following days passed pleasantly in the company of new friends. We passed the time telling stories, playing cards, watching movies, but mostly lounging on deck – in a hammock or in the bird’s nest – enthralled by beauty and immensity of the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

Life on the High Seas

Our boat sighed and swayed with the indifferent swells of the Caribbean. I climbed the mast to look over miles of water – in the distance the ocean looked calm, almost glassy. But as my eye was drawn closer the water began to take on more character: occasional white caps from breaking swells; the apparent chasm between the swells as the ship dropped from one and faced the wall of another; the countless ripples covering every inch of the water’s surface. The day too played its hand upon the ocean and changed the bright, silvery shimmer of the morning, to a deep denim at midday, then a slow return to the mercury of evening and the final, inky black of night.

Dolphins raced against us, darting right in front of our bow, leaping in the happy knowledge that they were faster and more agile. And then, as unlikely as it was beautiful, a hawk came to perch on our mast, 100 miles from the nearest land. He came and inspected us and scared away the sea gulls who, just as unlikely, came right before him.

Our boat and her passengers had their lives in my hands 4 times as I took my place behind the wheel in the pilot house and attempted to hold a true course towards Cartagena, despite the wind’s and current’s best efforts to drive us into the Darien. Because the boat has no real crew it was up to us to rotate every four hours and take the helm – day and night.

Of course I had a cold, was seasick for 2 of the 3 days, and barely managed to string together a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep.

We stopped by the San Blas islands for a quick dip and some snorkeling in the crystal clear waters which surround the idyllic palm and white sandy beaches of the Kuna people. We then left the calm waters of the bay and embarked on a slightly nerve wrecking, and painfully slow, cruise towards Colombia.

 

We were fortunate enough to avoid the storms which we saw passing all around us, and only twice felt the drops of relatively light rain. The six steeds stood firm and true throughout the journey and were not the worse for wear, unlike some of their riders. Really only two of us, including yours truly, were sea sick. Even the questionably cooked lobsters we bought off some Kuna divers, minutes after they were brought to the surface, failed to induce the rest of the crew to rush towards the rails.

I was feeling the effects of 4 days without a shower, after constant sweat, and the remnants of our salt water dip. We were all feeling it I suppose, but as we are all bikers, and are accustomed to grime and sweat, no one complained – though quietly and anxiously we all awaited or first shower in Cartagena.

3 days later we were safely in the bay looking longingly at the shores of Cartagena. Because we were not on an official passenger carrier we could not dock and had to wait for some more dingys to come bring our steeds to land. I’m not sure I can describe the sensation of sitting atop of Georgia, my feet keeping her steady on the sides of what is little more than a canoe with a motor, praying that the waves from passing boats would not topple us into the bay and put a sad end to my journey. But all 6 of us landed safely in Colombia and began the next phase of our journeys through the wonders of South America.

 

 

 

 

Circumference of the World

 

Nicaragua was only the 8^th country on my journey, but it had taken 2 years and 40,015km (the circumference of the earth) to get there.

 

As El Salvador and Honduras before, Nicaragua proved to have little to offer which could not be found in Mexico or Guatemala. After leaving Mexico people have been progressively less friendly and open, the food less tasty, roads less curvy, and the landscape less impressive. Maybe it was because I had been on the road for so long, maybe it was the loneliness, or perhaps the residual weakness of dengue that plagued my time in Nicaragua, but whatever it was I had to work at staying alert, staying interested and engaged in what was going on.

 

 

 

 

Nicaragua flew by in the glimpse of a couple of weeks. There were a few highlights, but little to keep me there for long. Ometepe Island, with its twin volcanoes was a lovely retreat. I finally found good food, and passed the time with other intrepid travelers. San Juan del Sur was an exceptional place, with some of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. It was my last stop in Nicaragua and I treated myself to a nice hostel, with nice food, and a view of the Pacific from the top of a seaside mount.

 

And as quick as I had surfed down a volcano in Leon, walked the colonial streets of Granada, rode around Ometepe, and played with the resident monkey at the Oceanside hostel, I was heading for the Costa Rican border.

 

Costa Rica

I was caught in the rain again upon entering Costa Rica, and by the time I arrived at my host’s place near the beach I was sick. The dengue destroyed my immune system and any tolerance for strange food that I had developed so that every bit of rain made me sick and every meal made me nauseas. I was in for a rude awakening when I went to the market to buy some fruit and ended up paying $40 for a bag barely big enough to last a few days. It felt like being back in New York. Costa Rica is in fact the most expensive place in Central America. Once I was healthy there was little else I could do but ride around as park entrances and activity fees were astronomical (for me). If you are on a 2 week vacation, and going back to a decent job, Costa Rica is not expensive, but when you live on a motorcycle with no income for years on end the lovely tourist trap is a huge drain.

Costa Rica is a lovely country, with some of the biggest bio-diversity in the world. It is a tiny strip of land that is home to thousands of species of flora and fauna. I wanted so badly to go on tours and see incredibly colorful, and rare, birds and reptiles and sea mammals, but the budget only allowed me a glide through the canopy. In truth I’m not sure I could have handled anything more. By the end of the first week I knew I had to do something to recover from the dengue, so I bought a ticket to fly to the states and recover at my mother’s house.

On my way to stay with David, a guy I had met during Dia de los Muertes in Mexico, my clutch cable broke while riding up a hill. I managed to flag someone down and use his phone to call David. Within an hour he, his father and neighbor were there to pick me up with a truck. We lifted Georgia up (no small feat – she’s a big girl) onto the back of the truck and brought her to David’s place where she would await my return from the states. David’s family welcomed me in as though I were a lost son, and all my pain seemed to disappear while staying with them. David’s brother gave his bunk and went to sleep with his parents. It was a tiny, humble house which did not represent the hard work of David’s father rather the persistent inequity between the classes in Latin America. The medium standard of living in Costa Rica is higher than other places, but for those who do not work in tourism the gap between the lower and middle classes still appears insurmountable. Of course that was not something I was made to feel while staying with them, they allowed no sign of poverty while we ate and passed the time together.

After a few days with my new Costa Rican family I boarded a plane to Minneapolis to recover and visit my mother. I wish I knew then that it would be the last time I would see her, the last time I would hold her face in my hands, the last time I would listen to her stories and eat her incredible cooking. I wish I knew…